It had been a long, long 24 hours: catching the Princeton Airporter, heading up the New Jersey Turnpike, dropping passengers off at Newark Airport, and finally reaching JFK Airport. And then came the fun part: getting through security, that of the airport, as well as that of the airline, for it was El Al, the national carrier of Israel, that my father and I were about to board along with the rest of our Holy-Land tour group. My father and I, who were at the end of the line, watched as the rest of our group, made up of folks from a Methodist church in Utica, upstate New York, made it through El Al security without the slightest glitch; as did my father. But when they got to me, at the very end of the line, things suddenly changed in a big hurry. I was approached by a tall, slender, 20-something woman, who looked like she could be walking down one of those runways in Paris modeling the latest in fashion apparel. She was incredibly charming and pleasant, eerily so, a smile on her face, as she asked me if the man up ahead was in fact my father. "Yes, he is," was my reply. "You're sure," she asked? "Yes, he's my father." "But he doesn't live with you or even near you?" Same smile and charming demeanor, which was beginning to really creep me out, because I knew full well that these El Al agents were schooled in psychology and criminology. A look of the eyes a certain way - askance, for instance - and I'd be going home instead of to the Holy Land. Just make eye contact with her and don't look nervous, I kept telling myself. "That's correct, he lives 3 hours from me in central Pennsylvania." "But he stayed with you last night, didn't he?" "Yes, he did; it saved him having to drive 3 hours in the early hours of the morning." "Uh-huh. Was he, at any time, near your luggage?" "No." "He didn't help you pack it?" "That's correct." "Because, if we find something in your luggage that shouldn't be there, and you didn't put it there, we wouldn't want you to get in trouble." Gee, thanks, I remember thinking to myself. "Wait here," she told me; "I need to speak with my supervisor." So I stood there, on this side of the check-in counter, while my father and tour group leader waited anxiously on the other side, with the others in the group. In a few minutes, the El Al agent returned with her supervisor, who looked even younger than the agent, about college-age, and, again, tall and slender and modelesque, with a smile on her face and the charming and pleasant demeanor. "The man in front of you is your father?" the supervisor asked. "Yes, he is." "He stayed at your house last night?" "Yes, he did." "He didn't help you pack your luggage?" "No, he didn't." Why are the two of you traveling with a group from upstate New York? Couldn't you find a group closer to New Jersey or Pennsylvania?" "We were assigned to this group by the Holy-Land travel agency." "And how did you hear about them?" And so on, and so on. To make a long story short, I was finally granted clearance to board the El Al 747 bound for Israel.

After 13 hours of nonstop flight, across the Atlantic and Europe and the Mediterranean Sea, we landed safely at Ben-Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv. The tour group boarded a bus for the Ramada Renaissance in Jerusalem, a 90 minute drive, where we would check in, have some afternoon down time, have dinner, get a good night's sleep, and then head for Bethlehem the next morning. But when we arrived at the hotel, they weren't ready for us; not for another 3 or 4 hours. So back to the bus we went, to do a little sightseeing. "I know you're tired," announced the group leader from the front of the bus, "so we won't be going far. Just 7 more miles beyond Jerusalem, to the little town of Bethlehem. "Oh no," I remember saying to my father, "I want to go there tomorrow, when I'm feeling refreshed and I can focus." I was tired and irritable, not in the best frame of mind to tour one of the holiest sites in Christendom. But on we went to Bethlehem, pulling into Manger Square, where there was extremely tight security. We got out of the bus, made our way across the square and into the cavernous Church of the Nativity, to the back of the Church, past the three altars - Greek Orthodox, Roman Catholic, and Armenian, descended a well-worn flight of stairs down into the cave where, according to Tradition, Jesus was born. There I was, looking down at the silver star on the floor, that marks the spot where he was born. I was finally there, at my Savior's birthplace, in the little town of Bethlehem that I had been hearing about all my life. This was one of the highlights of the entire trip, but I wasn't moved, and that saddened me. We boarded the bus and made our way out of Bethlehem, heading back to Jerusalem and the hotel. The little town was fading in the distance. Just then, the tour guide stood up in the front of the bus and said, "Friends, we won't be going there to visit, but I at least wanted to point out Shepherd's Field, over there on the right. Where, according to Tradition, the Angel of the Lord appeared to those social outcasts with the startling and earthshaking news, ‘Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which will be to all people; for unto you is born this day, in the City of David, a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.’" And suddenly, gazing out the window at Shepherd's Field, absorbing those familiar words, I was moved to tears. The Spirit of God had come upon me, catching me by surprise, shaking me out of my funk. Behold, I bring you good tidings which will be to all people.... I was moved, not inside a sacred shrine, but sitting on a bus that reeked of diesel fumes. And just like that, it was over, time for check in at the hotel.

It's very much like Advent. Quieting ourselves enough, and putting our own agendas aside long enough for the Spirit of God to catch us off guard and by surprise, to prepare the way of the Lord by preparing our hearts for his rebirth. Stilling ourselves long enough to be moved by his advent or his coming. Prepare the way of the Lord.

It's reminiscent of the opening scene of Fellini's classic film, The Dolce Vita. The helicopter is flying through the sky, not too far above the ground, transporting a statue that you can see dangling from a rope. The statue, on its way to St. Peter's Basilica, is a man dressed in a robe, arms outstretched so that he looks as if he is flying by himself. The helicopter reaches the outskirts of Rome and passes over a swimming pool and quite a few scantily-clad young women and men. The incongruity of the whole scene. And yet, for a brief moment, the young and profane Italians stop their cavorting, and become still, strangely focused on the face hovering in the sky. The same with Advent and Christmas: it's only for a moment, just for a little while, seeing the face, hearing the familiar words, as if for the first time, and in so doing, allowing ourselves to be surprised and touched and even moved. Prepare the way of the Lord. Just for a moment, this holy season, as something comes to life again, some spirit, some hope, some expectation for ourselves, our loved ones, and our world, that is so strange and new and precious.

The child soon to be born in the night among beasts, surrounded by, as Frederick Buechner puts it, sweet breath and steaming dung, and nothing is ever the same again. On this second Sunday of Advent, we are reminded that the message of this holiest of seasons is that our God is more surprising than we ever could have imagined. Once we have seen God incarnate in a lowly stable, we can never be entirely sure where God will appear or to what lengths God will go or to what depths God will descend in this wild pursuit of you and me. If God would stoop to the lowliness of a feeding trough, there is nothing in my life or yours that would ever prevent God from breaking into our lives and offering us a fresh start and a new beginning. A voice of one calling in the desert, this Advent season: Prepare the way of the Lord. Amen.